“Aye, but Freddie didnae want to frighten the girls.”
“A pity,” Aunt May said, sending a meaningful look towards her nephew.
“Ye may borrow it with my good blessings, though,” Ross added with a grin.
Aunt May stared up at Ross with approval. “I like you.” Ross gave a low chuckle. “Aye, and I like ye fine too. Yer very welcome here.”
Aunt May beamed at him and turned back to her nephews. “What lovely manners your brother has. Perhaps you could learn a thing or two whilst you’re here.”
Before either Samuel or Sampson could protest, she brought Gwenn forward.
“Ross, Freddie… may I call you Freddie, dear?” she asked the big man’s wife.
The young woman laughed and nodded. “I shall be most offended if you don’t, Aunt May.”
“Thank you, then may I present our dear friend Miss Wynter to you.”
Gwenn froze, astonished by the introduction. Rather than have Gwenn presented as the governess, a servant of sorts, she had given her the status of a guest. For a moment Gwenn thought she might cry, her throat was so tight, but then she realised she could not allow them to believe she was something she was not, no matter how much she wanted to. She was hiding enough of herself without making things worse. A respectable family would never invite her into their homes, not if they knew who—and what—she was.
“That is very kind, Mrs Bainbridge,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “But not entirely accurate. Good evening, Captain Moncreiffe, Mrs Moncreiffe, I am so pleased to meet you. I am in fact employed by Lord Cheam as governess to Susan and Selina.”
The captain and his wife greeted her with warmth whilst casting curious glances between their guests, aware that there was something amiss but too polite to ask.
“Digby,” Ross called to the butler, a tall, thin fellow with an immaculate appearance. “Did Mrs Murray say something about shortbread?”
The man turned and smiled, a surprisingly warm expression from a fellow who had up till now been the discreet and starchy epitome of a top-notch butler. “Indeed, she did, Captain. In fact, I should say she’s bursting with impatience to meet the young ladies.”
Gwenn’s surprise deepened as she recognised a decidedly English accent. She wondered how a man like the captain had acquired such a butler in the wilds of Scotland. On first sight, he’d seemed top lofty enough to serve a duke, but the way he treated his master was far more familiar than was usually approved of.
“Are ye ready to meet my housekeeper, ladies?” Ross asked of Susan and Selina. “She is a very fine cook and will stuff ye like a pair of plump partridges before the end of your stay, so I give ye fair warning. Her shortbread is a thing of beauty. Would ye be interested in tasting some?”
The girls chorused an enthusiastic reply, and Freddie laughed and took their hands.
“Come along then, to the kitchens with you.”
“Should ye prefer to go to yer room now, Auntie?” Ross asked Aunt May who gave an emphatic shake of her head.
“With shortbread on offer? I think not.”
“Excellent,” Ross replied. “We’ll all go to the kitchens for tea and shortbread. Mrs Murray will be in raptures, but I’m afraid ye will find us very informal here.”
“Refreshingly so, I believe,” Aunt May said, before adding with a rather imperious air. “You may give me your arm.”
“It would be an honour, Auntie,” Ross replied with exaggerated politeness.
Samuel made a gagging sound and received a clip round the ear from Aunt May on her way past, which made Ross snort with laughter.
“Ach, yer just jealous that she likes me better than ye,” he said to Samuel, who rolled his eyes as Ross glanced at his wife and added with a wink. “Most people do.”
Gwenn hesitated, longing to follow them but unsure if she ought to until Sampson caught her eye. He moved towards her and held out his arm.
“Come along,” he said, smiling at her with such tenderness her chest ached. There were too many emotions battering her on all sides and she felt raw and exposed, too open and vulnerable to withstand that smile. The warmth of their greeting from everyone at the castle and the easy banter between them only brought to life all her hopes and dreams and proved they existed… for some. This was what she’d run away for, hoping to find some small taste of a life like this. Now she could see the reality of it before her, but she was like a child with her nose pressed against a sweet shop window and no money to go inside. Perhaps a thief would be a better analogy, she thought bitterly as the sweet, vanilla scent of shortbread enveloped them, for she could surely contaminate all of this with the taint of scandal, if she didn’t leave them be.
***
Mrs Murray was a small woman with luxuriant white hair and dark eyes, bright with intelligence and good humour, and Sampson was gratified to receive a warm welcome from her. She’d treated him with a distinct lack of respect and great suspicion at their first meeting, though in the circumstances Sampson could hardly blame her. He’d brought her beloved Captain Moncreiffe home bleeding and nearly out of his mind with fever, after their father had shot him when his back was turned. It was only her considerable skill as a healer that had saved him. That she’d believed Sampson every bit as vile and wicked as his father had been obvious, and she’d taken a while to come around.
It seemed he’d passed some test, however, and she was all smiles and showed every sign of being genuinely pleased to greet him, especially as he’d brought his little sisters to stay.
“What bonnie lasses,” she said, beaming, her rosy cheeks flushed with the heat of the kitchen, which was the cosiest place Sampson had ever known. “Have another shortbread,” she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear as she snuck another biscuit into their eager hands and then smacked Ross’s away when he reached for one himself.
“Ye’ve already had one,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Ye’ll spoil yer dinner.”
“Ye gave the girls three,” Ross retorted, indignant as she snatched the plate of biscuits away.
“Ach, take the food from the mouths of bairns, would ye?” she demanded as Ross huffed and folded his massive arms, looking as sulky as a three-year-old denied a treat.
Sampson laughed despite the heaviness in his heart. How good it was to be here. The girls had already lost any shyness in the presence of their half-brother and had taken to Freddie at once too. They would have a wonderful Christmas and be spoiled rotten, and that was everything he’d hoped to give them.
Unbidden, his gaze drifted to Gwenn. She was watching everything with rapt attention, an uneaten shortbread held in her elegant fingers. Her eyes were a little too bright as she stared at the girls. They were talking with Freddie and laughing as Ross looked down at the three of them with amusement. He stroked his wife’s hair, an openly tender caress, and she looked up at him, such adoration in her gaze that Sampson smiled and turned back to catch Gwenn’s eye to share in the warmth of the scene. As he looked up, he saw her turn abruptly away. She stood before the fire, staring down at the flames, and Sampson watched as she raised a hand to face and wiped her cheek. His heart clenched with misery. The longing for her, the longing to go to her and promise that they could have that too, was so overpowering it took everything he had to hold himself still.
A prickling sensation up the back of his neck told him he was being watched, and he looked around to find Mrs Murray studying him. Slowly, her gaze travelled from him to Gwenn and back again.
Sampson turned away, unable to look her in the eyes, unable to meet her piercing gaze when it asked the unspoken question, what the devil are you playing at?
He didn’t have an answer.
***
Gwenn slept badly despite the embrace of a soft mattress and soft, thick blankets and quilts. She got up earlier than usual, unwilling to linger and allow her mind to travel back down the same paths it had trodden in circles all night, and hurried to pull on her dressing gown. A maid had coaxed
her fire to life recently, but the flames had yet to take the chill from the room.
From behind the curtains, a bright slant of daylight hinted at a sunny winter day, just perfect for Christmas Eve, and Gwenn tugged them open and froze, captured by the beauty of the scene before her. The rugged landscape of valleys and massive hills sparkled beneath a carpet of snow and, towering over it all, Ben Nevis dominated the vista, as white as a freshly iced bride cake.
Although Marie could never have been accused of being a godly or pious woman, she believed in God and had instilled the same belief in her daughter. Marie swept aside any suggestion that her lifestyle was a sin and that she was destined for hell with the rejoinder that Mary Magdalene had been a fallen woman and Jesus had liked her well enough. Gwenn always forbore to point out that Mary had repented of her lifestyle; it really wasn’t worth incurring Marie’s wrath. In this moment, though, Gwenn thought that any god who had a hand in creating something as beautiful and awe inspiring as this scene would have love and understanding enough to forgive a flawed creature like Marie… or her.
At least, she hoped so.
I’m nothing compared to that, she thought, staring at the immutable mountain. It had been there thousands of years before Gwenn had been born and would still be there when she had long been consigned to dust. Strangely, it was comforting to be such a tiny part of a history which would swallow her up and never give her a second thought. She was an imperfect creature, but her mistakes would not bring the world to an end any more than her good deeds would change its course. The realisation gave her a measure of peace and, though heavy eyed and weary, she went down to breakfast with more equilibrium than she’d been able to find last night.
Though the household was not yet awake, the servants were already up and doing. Gwenn dithered in the entrance hall, uncertain of where to go as Digby was still preparing the breakfast room and she did not wish to disturb him. The delicious scent emanating from the kitchen made her mind up for her and she followed her nose, pushing open the heavy door.
Mrs Murray looked up as she hesitated in the doorway and her friendly face split in a wide smile.
“Come in, Miss Wynter, and bide awhile. I’ve fresh bannocks and there’s tea in the pot.”
“I don’t want to get in your way,” Gwenn said, as Mrs Murray waved this notion away with a snort. “Ach, if I can work around Captain Moncreiffe, a wee slip of a thing like yerself is nae gonna bother me none.”
Before she could say another word, Gwenn found herself hustled to a spot at the huge, scrubbed oak table and sat down with a plate of bannocks, a dish of creamy golden butter and a large jar of jam. Mrs Murray hefted an enormous brown teapot, which seemed the size of Gwenn’s head and poured out a strong cup of tea, before pushing a jug of milk and a bowl with sugar lumps at her.
“Tuck in.”
“Thank you,” Gwenn said, reaching for a bannock and slathering the warm, crumbly surface with fresh butter and a healthy dollop of jam. She almost moaned as she took a bite. The buttery, oaty bannock against the sweet, tart bite of the jam was heavenly. “That,” she said, staring at her plate. “Is the most delicious thing I ever tasted.”
Mrs Murray beamed at her, clearly delighted. “Hawthorn jam,” she said and then gave Gwenn a wink. “Good for the heart, it is.”
Gwenn paused, the bannock suspended an inch from her mouth. Somehow, she knew Mrs Murray was not speaking of her health.
“I’m sorry?” she said, aware she sounded a little stiff as her mind whirled, wondering if she’d somehow given herself away last night.
“Forgive me,” Mrs Murray said as a frown gathered between her eyes, she hesitated, wiping her hands on her apron. “’Tis none of my affair, I know, only I had come to like Lord Cheam but… if he’s forcing his attention where it is not wanted, mayhap he’s more like his father than I imagined.”
“He’s nothing like his father!” Gwenn burst out before she could think to hold her tongue.
It was too late now, though, and Mrs Murray stilled, watching her.
“He’s a good man,” Gwenn said, her throat growing tight. “It’s me… me that….” To her shame the little aura of calm she’d discovered evaporated in an instant and all the emotions she’d been struggling to keep in check burst free as she dissolved into an ugly bout of tears.
“Ach, lassie!” Mrs Murray cried, bustling over and pulling her into a fierce embrace.
Gwenn allowed it, comforted by the homely scents of baking as the small woman crooned and rocked her like a child. “I’m sorry. I never meant to upset ye so. I ought never to have opened my mouth. Blathering on and interfering is my besetting sin, as anyone will tell ye.”
“It’s all right,” Gwenn managed between sobs. “B-But how—”
“I saw him looking at ye last night,” Mrs Murray said, her voice gentle as she stroked Gwenn’s hair. “Pure longing in his eyes. A man in love if ever I saw one.”
“L-Love?” Gwenn said, her heart bursting despite everything.
Except then she realised that it changed nothing. It only meant Sampson would be just as wretched as she was when this came to its inevitable end. She cried harder.
“Aye, lass,” Mrs Murray said. “And I could see plain that ye were burdened down with a heavy weight. I wondered if perhaps ye did not enjoy his attentions and feared for ye, but I see that’s not the case.”
“It’s not.” Gwenn shook her head and accepted the handkerchief that Mrs Murray pressed into her hand. It smelled of lavender and she inhaled, trying to calm herself and failing. “I l-love h-him, but it’s… it’s impossible,” she said, and dissolved into another round of sobbing.
The sound of a door opening reached their ears and Gwenn stiffened, glancing to where Captain Moncreiffe had just come in.
“What is it?” he demanded, staring at Mrs Murray who was clutching Gwenn to her bosom. No doubt she looked a fine sight, red-eyed and dishevelled after her outburst.
“Out!” Mrs Murray commanded, and with such force Gwenn jumped.
She watched the captain with trepidation, waiting for the moment when he shouted at his housekeeper to mind her tongue and remember to whom she was speaking. Instead, he stared, open-mouthed, and then turned smartly on his heel, and went out as instructed.
Gwenn glanced back at Mrs Murray, a little astonished.
The old woman shrugged, a glint in her dark eyes. “I was the nearest thing to a mother he ever had. I patched that boy up when he was a wee bairn, and tanned his hide a time or two an’ all. For all he’s a big braw captain now, he’ll nae forget it. Besides which, the bravest fellow will take to his heels at the sight of a woman’s tears.”
Gwenn laughed a little, and Mrs Murray patted her cheek. “I have just the thing,” she said with a wink and hurried off, returning with a bottle of whisky. She laced Gwenn’s tea with a generous measure before putting it in her hand. “Drink that and finish those bannocks, and the world won’t seem so cold, lassie. Then we’ll talk… if ye wish it.”
She moved away without another word, busying herself with preparing the breakfast as Gwenn sat and ate and sipped at her tea, and discovered that Mrs Murray was quite correct. The old woman’s presence soothed her as did the scent of fresh bread. The tea, or rather the whisky in it, eased a little of the tension and chased away the desperation she’d felt, for now at least.
Gwenn picked up the bannock she’d set down before her outburst and decided, for the moment, to concentrate on simple pleasures.
Chapter 18
“Wherein Gwenn decides her fate.”
“Morning, Ross,” Sampson said as he came down the stairs. He’d slept badly, too consumed with how to get Gwenn to tell him the truth of her past so that he might find a way for them to have a future. Ross was standing in the middle of the vast hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, his thick eyebrows drawn together. “What is it? Forgotten to put your trousers on?”
Ross looked up and rolled his eyes. “Ye are just jealous ye have n
ae the legs to wear a kilt, ye damned Sassenach.”
Sampson snorted and smacked Ross on the shoulder. “Yes, that must be it,” he said, his tone grave.
They walked to the breakfast parlour and sat down whilst Digby served coffee and ensured their plates were loaded with bacon, sausages and eggs before leaving them alone.
“Tell me about Miss Wynter.”
The coffee went down the wrong way, such was Sampson’s surprise at the question and Ross thumped him on the back so hard he was almost winded. Once he’d gotten his breath back, Ross regarded him curiously.
“Well, that was nae the reaction I expected.”
“Wasn’t it?” Sampson retorted tersely as he met Ross’ suspicious gaze.
“Dallying with the governess was nae what I expected of ye, nae.”
Ross’ expression had hardened and, for a moment, Sampson felt a burst of fury. It dissipated as he realised he had no right to the moral high ground: he had been trying to seduce the governess, to make her his mistress if he couldn’t have her for a wife. With the circumstances of his own conception, Sampson could hardly blame Ross for viewing the affair in a less than romantic light.
“It’s not what you think,” Sampson said, and then gave a huff of laughter as he realised how pathetic that sounded. He groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not like him, Ross. I don’t want to be dishonourable—”
“Then don’t be,” Ross replied, his voice hard as he speared a sausage with a rather too violent stab of his fork.
“Now look here,” Sampson said, growing a little irritated now. “You don’t know the circumstances, so don’t go giving me the protective laird defending the innocent girl treatment. I want to marry her, I… I just might not be able to.”
“Then ye ought not to hae put yer hands on her,” Ross growled, setting down his knife and fork and glaring at Sampson.
“I haven’t!” Sampson retorted, though perhaps not with as much conviction as he might have bearing in mind that a, it wasn’t entirely true and b, it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Melting Miss Wynter (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 17) Page 18